


Cardinal Points

by nox_candida



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Childhood, Family, Gen, Growing Up, Magical Realism, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 22:47:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nox_candida/pseuds/nox_candida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>But there are a few things—the things most laden with memory and sentiment—that he’s put off packing away.  An old atlas—worn through use as a child when he’d had little care for the preservation of things--the first medical textbook he’d ever bought, and a rubber ball he’d discovered in the wake of what happed at Bart’s.  Then there are the most important items: Sherlock’s deerstalker, his violin—hidden away when all of the rest of Sherlock’s things had been removed--and an old silver compass.</i>
</p>
<p>After Sherlock's fall, John needs to leave Baker Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cardinal Points

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/gifts).



> Written for swissmarg for Holmestice. Many, many thanks to [persiflager](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager) for the beta, Britpick, and the title.

_“John, let’s move in together.”_

He asks for time to think about it, but he already knows what his answer will be.

He can’t stay at Baker Street.

After…everything that happened at Bart’s, there are too many reminders; every item is layered in memory upon memory, until John wonders if the memories are layered so thick that he can run his fingers through it and leave a trail.

It’s only worse after Sherlock’s things are removed. There are holes which should be filled and blank spaces that used to contain familiar and cherished features. It’s a map of the world without the continents.

When Mary tells him to move in with her, it doesn’t take but a quick look around Baker Street—and the recollection of the pinched, guilty look Mrs Hudson wears when she tells him that of course he can continue to pay only half the rent--to convince him of the answer staring him right in the face.

Even if he doesn’t want to see it. Acknowledging that Sherlock is gone is bad enough, and being reminded of all the painful memories is worse, but the last straw is retreating from Baker Street.

It’s waving the white flag.

He has no other choice, though, and it’s only through sheer will that he manages to get most of the things he cares about sent over to Mary’s flat in Hackney. But there are a few things—the things most laden with memory and sentiment—that he’s put off packing away.

An old atlas—worn through use as a child when he’d had little care for the preservation of things--the first medical textbook he’d ever bought, and a rubber ball he’d discovered in the wake of what happed at Bart’s. Then there are the most important items: Sherlock’s deerstalker, his violin—hidden away when all of the rest of Sherlock’s things had been removed--and an old silver compass.

It’s the last of these—the compass--that John reaches for and holds in his hand, running his fingers over the familiar dents and dings. The case is silver and worn, with dull patches and a bit of tarnish, and the metal is cool to the touch. The weight of it is comfortable and comforting, and he takes a moment to bask in the sensation.

Then, holding his breath, he opens the case with a soft click.

**

When John is seven, he's nearly drowned in an ocean of black.

Slate grey clouds loom overhead and rain _tip taps_ first on the window of the bedroom he shares with Harry and then on the umbrella that his father holds over his head.

He doesn't know how to swim amongst these people, but it's not so bad during the service. The tide held at bay, the storm still on the horizon; he's safe for as long as the umbrella protects him, for as long as his father doesn't allow him to sink.

But they're separated later, and the waves of people, dressed in their blacks and dark greys break over his head, hover above him and talk down to him, telling him how _sorry_ they are, how terribly tragic it all is, if he ever needs anything...

He doesn't understand, not really, the words foreign and unintelligible, directions in a language he hasn’t learned.

His voice is caught in his throat, his heart hammers in his chest, and he can't see beyond the black that blocks his vision of anything safe, of anything familiar. He panics and runs outside, out into the rain, retreats to the safest high ground he can find-- the tree that his Mum always said had old magic entwined in its roots. He stays there and waits until the dark waves recede.

His dad is the one to come get him, ultimately, and John reluctantly climbs down and surveys the damage left behind. The small house feels overlarge and cold. Nothing looks right; dirty dishes litter the sink and worktop, the hob has grease stains, trash hasn't been binned. Harry, already out of the black dress dad had told her to wear, sits on the sofa and frowns at the telly, one of the sofa cushions clutched tight to her chest.

And his dad, always smiling and laughing, looks old. Wrinkles crowd his eyes and bunch unhappily around his mouth, as though he's unexpectedly swallowed something bitter.

His dad drifts towards the refrigerator, opens it, and stares blankly inside. John doesn't know what to do, so he sneaks away to his bedroom to change out of the dark, uncomfortable suit and into his pajamas, hair and skin still soaked. Once that's done, he sits on his bed and stares out of the window. The rain continues to tap against the glass. It’s completely black outside, just the nothingness and the water, and he feels like he can't breathe, like the window will break and he will be swallowed up by the dark water until he's gone like Mum.

Sometime later--he's not sure how long--his dad comes to the room and watches John from the doorway. John looks back, uncertain, before his father enters the room with a bottle in one hand and a box in the other. He sits on the bed next to John.

"Your mother wanted you to have this," his father says, handing the box over him while taking a drink from the bottle. 

John accepts the box, but he doesn't pay much attention to it, instead biting his lip. He thinks for a minute of blurting out how scared he is, how much he misses Mum. He thinks about asking why this happened and if Mum will ever come back. All of the words rush to his lips, ready to roll of his tongue, but instead they crash against the back of his teeth and recede.

Dad takes another deep drink from the bottle--the smell making John wrinkle his nose in distaste—before standing up with a groan and a barely-there pat to John's head. "Get some sleep," his dad says before he leaves.

John collapses, buries his face in the pillow, and cries silently.

**

He doesn't open the box until a few weeks later, when he no longer drowns in salty tears every night. When he pulls the compass out, he recognizes it as one of his mother’s treasures, remembers the fantastic tales she used to tell about how it was magical, how the compass led her on the greatest adventure of her life. She always smiled as she said it, her eyes going soft and out of focus, and John always wanted to ask what had happened on the greatest adventure of her life to make her look like that. But then he suspects it had something to do with his dad, since she looked at him that way, too.

But now the compass of his memories—pristine and glowing—begins to show its age. Like so many of the things and people his mother loved, it’s broken. The needle doesn’t move—forever pointing southwest—and the casing is worn and old, dented, dinged and dulled. Nevertheless, John enjoys carrying it around like it works, like it's special the way his mother used to tell him. Sometimes he pretends he's on an adventure, lost but for his faithful compass illuminating the path ahead; sometimes it's a fancy watch, classy and sleek and not at all too big for his tiny hands.

On rare occasions, it's magical, imbued with the power to heal anything and everyone.

He doesn’t play that game very often.

**

John is ten the first time the needle moves.

The heat is unbearable that July, sweat dripping from John's scalp onto his forehead and into his eyes, stinging them and turning them red.

He holds the compass in his hand, plays idly with it while he ponders what he's going to do with his day. It's summer hols and Harry is out with her new friends and dad is working, so John is at loose ends. There's not much of a choice--the only interesting things to do are in the town centre--but it's fun to pretend that he'll do anything but go to the park. If he had any money, maybe he'd go to the book shop to buy a book, or to the tiny curio shop that sells all sorts of interesting things. It's his favourite shop if only for the large world map the proprietor has hung on one wall and the multi-coloured globe that rests on a stand right beneath it. When the shop is busy, he'll sneak in and go over to the map, his eyes tracing a path from Bangkok to Cairo, doing his best to imagine what those places would look like, or sound like, or even taste like.

But no, today he'll head to the park because no one will bother him there and because he's discovered that the little curio shop is far too stuffy in weather like this.

He stands up from the porch, intending to the take the compass back into the house so nothing happens to it, when he glances down to see the needle spinning before it holds still, pointing away from the house.

He nearly drops it in shock. As it is, he fumbles with it, desperate to not add to the dents and dings that already mark the casing. It takes him a moment to get a better look.

The needle is pointing northeast. It has never pointed northeast before.

John bites his lip and turns away from the house slowly, watching the needle hold steady in the same direction, a little waver here and there to assure himself that he’s not imagining things.

He hesitates, eyes riveted to the compass. Follow the needle, or put the compass back in the house?

In the end, it's not a difficult decision.

The needle points him in the direction of the town centre--no surprise--but once he gets there, the needle moves again, pointing away from the park and towards a cluster of buildings that include an old theatre-turned-cinema, a tiny tea shop, and the library.

When he reaches the intersection, he consults the compass and finds it pointing towards the library. He hesitates once again, waiting on the corner for the light afternoon traffic to pass him by and taking the time to gaze at the library. He's no stranger to the place, and he does love a good book, but he usually only goes there if he needs to for school or if he's desperate and needs to escape Harry or the gang of older boys who seem to think he's an easy target.

He doesn't hate the library, but he can't imagine finding anything exciting or terribly interesting there, either.

Another glance at the compass decides him because, frankly, this is the most interesting thing--that wasn't simultaneously terrifying--to happen to him in some time. He crosses the road and enters the building.

The needle spins again once he's inside, leading him down to the reference section. Once there, he meanders through the rows of books--more a maze to him than any sort of logical organisation--following the whims of the compass until it spins in the direction of north before he reaches the end of one row. He just barely manages to stop himself from running face first into books the size of paving stones.

When he gets a good look at them, though, his jaw drops in surprise and wonder. Gray's Anatomy. Atlas of Human Anatomy. Even an anatomy colouring book.

He pulls Atlas of Human Anatomy down from the shelf, opens the book and looks it over, his eyes drawn to the colourful images of the skull, to the roadmaps of veins and arteries.

_If I'd been there,_ he says to himself, _if I'd been on the train, and I'd had these books..._ but he doesn't finish the thought. Instead, he immerses himself in any of the books that look interesting.

Hours later, when the sun is sinking in the sky and the library is closing, he heaves the book--along with a few of the other ones--back up on the shelf. He'll come back tomorrow to look at some of the other ones.

Besides, the compass has moved again, pointing southwest. When John shakes it, the needle hangs in that direction, as though it has never moved at all.

His dad is already at the house when John arrives there, changed out of the suit he wears to the office and into the clothes he lounges around the house in.

He already has a beer in one hand, the remote to the telly in the other. John tip-toes past and sneaks back into his room.

**

He waits all summer for the needle to move again, in between trips to the library. It never does.

**

At least, it never does until the summer before year eight. One cloudy day in August it spins around the rose before coming to rest on south. With a jolt of excitement--and relief, as he'd been watching telly with Harry, always an excruciating experience--he jumps up and flees the house, not even bothering with a coat or a goodbye.

He focuses so intently on the compass and the direction it's leading him that he walks straight into a girl, the collision coming so unexpectedly that he ends up on his arse.

"Watch where you're going," she scolds him, glaring down at him.

"I was," he mumbles back, somewhat stunned by all the excitement--first the compass, then the thrill of discovery, and then the embarrassment of falling down and being dressed down in public by a girl.

He heaves himself to his feet and inspects the compass for new marks. He hopes ignoring the girl will make her go away.

It doesn’t.

"No, you weren't. You had your eyes down on the ground."

He doesn't say anything--actually, she has a point, but he doesn't have to admit that to anyone, and especially not to her.

"Sorry," he finally manages, insincerely, his eyes straying to the compass. Unfortunately it's pointing directly at Mary. He frowns, but lifts his head to see if there's something behind her that the compass might be pointing at. There's not, unless he's meant to purchase knitting needles or yarn.

He's so focused on the compass that he doesn’t see the punch coming. "Ow! What was that for?" he asks, angrily, rubbing his shoulder.

She sniffs at him. "You shouldn't say sorry unless you mean it."

John scowls at her and goes to move past her but the needle spins right around and points back towards the girl. He turns around. "What's so special about you?" he demands.

"I can climb trees better than you," she answers frankly.

"No, you can't."

"Watch me," she says, and then races towards the park, John hot on her heels.

**

Her name, he finds out, is Mary. And she can climb trees better than him.

**

The needle doesn’t move again for some time, but that’s all right. He has a best friend at school now—Mary, who thinks he’s all right for a boy and is the best football player on the team—and a few other friends that he’s met because of his frequent visits to the library. He makes a point of going once a week at least, and once he’s exhausted the library’s collection of age-appropriate (more or less) medical books, he dives into adventure tales and the unparalleled collection of maps and atlases. He can spend hours there studying the large books filled with detailed maps of places he’s never been but has always wanted to go. He can trace rivers in South America with his finger tips and traverse the Himalayas with his eyes. It’s not the same thing as being there, but he’s got a decent imagination and it’s almost good enough.

Well, not even almost, but he’ll make do.

**

He goes to London for university, pursuing his MBBS at King’s College, and he takes the compass with him out of habit and the ever-present hope that today will be the day it moves again. It usually never does, but he likes to have it handy and, besides, it tends to be a conversation starter when people see it. John’s not ashamed to admit that he’s used it to get someone’s attention more than a few times.

He’s nearing the end of his first term—still knee-deep in revision to do and punchy from being up for more than 24 hours—when the needle moves once more.

John bites his lip when he notices it and ponders what he should do. The needle is pointing northeast and he desperately needs a break, but he still has so much to do and who knows how long following where the compass leads will take.

He has never ignored it before, though, and it always seems to point him to important things or people, so he carefully marks out where he is in his revision, grabs his wallet and his keys, and takes off.

He ends up at the train station.

More specifically, he ends up at the destination board at the train station, and he’s at a bit of a loss. Where, exactly, should he go? There are more than ten trains listed on the board and he’s not at all sure where his destination is meant to be.

John turns his attention to the people around him, thinking that perhaps he’s meant to meet someone here like he met Mary, but no one is paying him the slightest notice. He disregards that theory.

Feeling helpless and frustrated, he’s just about to throw in the towel and head back to his flat when the needle spins again, leading him away from the board and towards the platforms. Eyes glued to the compass, he only looks up when he reaches a train.

A train heading home.

He shivers, suddenly feeling cold and uncomfortable and stares back down at the compass to see if maybe there’s a mistake. But the needle is pointing firmly—as firmly as an inanimate object can be said to be—towards the train and, with a sigh, John trudges back to the ticket counter to purchase a ticket. He can’t shake the sense that this is going to be unlike all the other times he’s followed the compass, and it’s enough to make him hesitate on the verge of paying. The fact is, though, that he’s never truly shied away from the unknown. Marching forward, he purchases the ticket and finds himself on a train home in short order.

When he disembarks, he expects the compass to lead him home, but it doesn’t. Instead, he hurries through the familiar streets until he reaches the town centre and a pub he’s passed by more times than he can rightly remember.

Still, as he’s reaching for the door, it’s not familiarity he recalls, but the sense of foreboding he felt when the compass first led him to the train. Goosebumps rise on his arms and the tiny hairs at the nape of his neck stand on end. Still, he keeps his spine straight and resolutely ignores the way his hands tremble as he opens the door.

Inside he’s greeted with the sounds of a football match in progress and the attendant cheering and jeering of the patrons who support one side or the other.

And there, leaning casually against the bar with her arm around a petite redhead and laughing far too loudly, is Harry.

John stares, shocked and unable to move until a group of older men grumbles at him for letting the draft in on such a cold December evening.

It’s not Harry as the life of the party—she’s always been more comfortable around strangers than he—and it’s not the pretty girl she’s cozied up to. It’s the way her eyes are out of focus and her fingers tremble—symptoms of a much greater problem.

“Johnny!” Harry calls when she finally spots him. To everyone in the pub, her voice sounds cheerful and good-humoured, but John spots the blush that covers her cheeks—a blush that has nothing to do with the amount of alcohol she’s imbibed—and the way she casts her eyes around at all of her new mates instead of looking at her younger brother. “What are you doing here?”

John clenches his jaw, shocking giving way to anger and disappointment. “What are _you_ doing here?” he asks, doing his best to sound civil and uninterested. Given by the glare in Harry’s eyes, she, at least, is not fooled.

And from the way she sits back in her chair and juts her chin at him, she doesn’t care if this degenerates into a fight in public. “We’re celebrating,” she answers, clearly uncaring that the noise level has died down in the pub as everyone turns to watch a real-life match. “Rachel here made her first big sale.”

The crowd around Harry obliging cheers on poor Rachel, who looks decidedly uncomfortable with the attention.

“Harry, can I talk to you for a moment?” he asks, tilting his head back towards the door and widening his eyes in order to attempt to avoid more of a scene than they’ve already caused.

“Is it important?” Harry responds, stubbornly ignorant. Her eyes slant away from him and John despairs that they’ll ever have a serious talk, short of bodily dragging her out of her seat and the pub.

An option that is starting to look more and more attractive.

Harry glances back at him and scowls at the look on his face, her face blotchy from the liquor. It’s not just this time, though. How many times has she come back in high spirits, laughing too loud and bright and chattering at him to drive him away? He should have seen it sooner, should have connected the dots—the sudden shaking of her hands, a desperate look in her eyes, the “migraines” that are not truly migraines—but he didn’t.

Didn’t want to.

And for the first time in a very long time, his courage utterly fails him. There are too many people, and staring into his sister’s eyes—eyes that are glazed and hazy, challenging and desperate—he feels true terror.

“No,” he chokes out, voice trembling, fingers clenched tight in his palms. “Not important.”

And then he turns tail and flees, all the way back to London.

**

Now there is no sense of wonder or mystery, no excitement of adventures to be had. He tucks the compass away and tries to forget.

He can’t, he doesn’t, but it’s not the compass that leads him to the army. 

That’s all John.

**

When he’s preparing to take the flight that will eventually lead him to Afghanistan, he holds the compass in his hands and runs his fingertips over the dented and bruised casing, debating with himself whether he should take it or leave it.

He ultimately stuffs it in the pack, at the bottom. A curious relic of a distant, simpler time.

**

The next time the compass moves, he’s just finished his shift and has made a quick stop back to his quarters before hunting down some much-needed food. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots the compass with face open, needle twirling until it stops on west.

He pauses for a moment, staring, before he deliberately turns away, sets his gear down and leaves in search of food, as he’d planned to do,

The fact that the mess is east of his quarters has no bearing on his decision whatsoever.

John gets his food, plops down next to Williams, Murray, Jones, and Tyler. It’s a comfortable, convivial atmosphere that lasts straight through dinner and into an impromptu darts competition. It’s even better when John wins and claims bragging rights—especially over Murray, who claimed to be a great shot when it came to any sort of target—and the compass goes straight out of his head.

It’s only when he returns to his bed, on the verge of crashing head first, when he spots the compass—no longer moving or pointing west—that he stops to consider what he’s done.

It’s only as he’s lying in bed, half-dreaming, that he imagines himself at the intersection of two roads and how—having chosen one—he can’t shake the curiosity of where the other led.

**

The morning that changes John’s life begins much as any other.

He drags himself from bed and has a quick breakfast before beginning his shift at the hospital. He and the other doctors had been briefed that intelligence had received vague threats of something big and—without more information to go on—they’d been advised to be alert and proactive, that they could have incoming casualties at any time.

Unspoken, of course, is the reality that any of them could be casualties at any time.

He’s not sure why, but he brings the compass with him on his shift. He tells himself it’s the comfort of a familiar object, but he’s not able to look at himself in the mirror when he thinks it.

Still, he carries it—and the gun he’s been issued—when he shows up at the hospital five minutes late.

His shift is almost over when he hears the first explosion. It’s not terribly close to the hospital, but he knows that they’ll be a target for whoever has come. Doctors with their medicine and their ethos typically are, in a warzone, though they’ve all been trained for this.

Their patients are their first priority, and their security and safety are paramount. Everything is running smoothly—even as the sounds of explosions and gunfire grow louder and more menacing—and John is just about to follow the directive of the soldier in front of him when he reaches for the compass in his pocket.

Unsurprisingly, it is spinning madly, as though it senses the danger all around. John pauses in his brisk stride, frowning down at the needle. As he watches, it jerks to a stop, pointing in the opposite direction from the way he’d been headed.

“Come on!” Williams screams at him from just behind the soldier. They’re both waving madly at him to hurry up, but John ignores them. The compass isn’t always good, but it’s always _right_. With hardly a break in his stride, John pivots and begins rushing in the direction the compass is pointing him—north.

One hallway leads to another and he turns yet another corner to find a single man—boy, really, he’s so young despite the lines on his face—one of the attackers.

They stare at each other, surprised, before going for their weapons. The man, boy, shoots first, but John is a better shot.

He doesn’t remember much after that, except excruciating pain, darkness, and the feeling of warm wetness on the floor under his hand.

**

John is adrift in a sea that stretches as far as he can see and feel. The waves are dark and sometimes he bobs above the rest to see the horizon, before plunging back under.

He remains lost for a second, for an eon, and there is nothing to guide him here, not a compass nor his own will.

**

Murray is there when he wakes.

“You’re a lucky bastard, Watson.”

John blinks muzzily at him, confused.

Murray leans forward, eyes deadly serious. “Williams didn’t make it.”

John stares at the bed, his shoulder and leg throbbing.

**

London is cold and rainy in a way that he has become unused to over the years. He’s hardly settled into his bedsit before Harry is calling him, asking him to meet her, to see her after so long.

When he glances over at the compass, it remains frozen, pointing to the southwest.

It’s stupid to be disappointed, but he can’t help it that he is. In the end, refusing to see Harry is an unwinnable battle, so he chooses the location—decidedly not a pub—and the time.

Harry looks ragged when she finally shows. The fine lines that had begun to appear when he went to Afghanistan have become larger, more noticeable. They aren’t the laugh lines their father had until John was seven; these map a different tale, one of fear and escape, of sorrow masquerading as cheer.

John doesn’t comment on them, because he knows his own have become deeper, time eroding away the baby face he’d one had into something sharper and harder. His own tell a story, too.

“You look well,” John begins and then takes a quick drink of water to cover his embarrassment.

Harry frowns at him. “I look like shit,” she tells him, though he knows better than to agree.

“How’s work?” he says, changing the subject. His eyes wander to the windows, even as he knows he should be focusing on Harry since that will help this meeting go as well as it can. But he clenches his jaw and clutches tighter to the cane he must now use.

“Fine. How’s the new place?”

“Small.”

Silence thickens between them, hangs heavy around them, obscuring everyone else even as they desperately seek a way out.

“Are you going to therapy?” Harry tries. John looks at her hands and sees her knuckles white in a death grip on her lemonade.

John manages a short nod and grits his teeth, refrains from saying, instead, ‘Are _you_?’

“Is it…” Harry trails off, and then sighs. “Going well?”

John glares at her, remains silent and wishes that this dinner were over already.

“I brought you something,” Harry says, after another long silence, and then she sets a sharp mobile between them, face up.

“Why?”

Harry doesn’t look him in the eyes when she smiles and says, “So you have no excuse not to keep in touch.”

His eyes stray to her face, take in the dull red blooming across her nose and her fingers tapping an arrhythmic pattern on the table. He opens his mouth to ask, but he sees that same desperate look in her eyes that reminds him of a pub so many years ago and he merely sighs, shakes his head, and mutters, “Thanks.”

It’s not a mystery for long, though, because once their awkward dinner is over and they go their separate ways, John pulls the mobile out and takes a better look.

_Harry Watson from Clara XXX_

He doesn’t have to be a genius to know what that means.

**

London is cold, and rainy, and foggy. One grey day slides into the next and John drifts along, carried by the currents of the metropolis. 

_Nothing ever happens to me._

**

It’s six months before the needle moves again. John has finished cleaning his gun and putting it carefully away when he spots the compass, face open, needle spinning and stopping determinedly on north.

This is the first time something remotely interesting has happened to him since he returned to London—not counting his excruciating meeting with Harry—and he takes a moment to relish the sensation.

In the past, perhaps he would have jumped to his feet in a hurry, barely remembering to grab his wallet before rushing out the door in search of adventure. At such times, always in the back of his mind was the memory of his mother’s stories, of her warm smile and the promise of magic. It was the same feeling he’d had exploring anatomy books as a child, or tracing the roads of faraway places with his fingers—so far, they may as well have been mystical, fictional.

Today, though, he takes a moment to just enjoy the anticipation of what he’ll find. Today, there’s promise of adventure, promise of something interesting and exciting—good or bad.

He holds this promise tight to him as he dresses for the day and as he takes his walk northwards, strolling towards the British Museum and Russell Square without caring too intently or much about where the day will end up.

Even the constant grey seems to let up, allowing some pale blue sky to peep through the clouds.

He’s enjoying the sensation so much that he nearly misses a man calling his name.

**

“John!” Mary calls up from the sitting room. “Ready?”

“Give me a minute,” he calls back down, eyes scanning the room. He can’t bring himself to look down just yet.

He inhales deeply, lungs expanding, before letting it out slowly.

And then he looks down.

The needle is moving, the needle is _spinning_ and then it comes to a halt pointing west.

At first, he doesn’t know what to make of it and idly wishes that Sherlock were on hand to help explain it, because of course Sherlock Holmes would be able to deduce the meaning behind something that John has accepted for years.

The needle jolts, quivers and points more emphatically west, towards the wall with the last few items in the room.

John turns to head downstairs, task forgotten, but the needle moves again beginning to point behind him, and he comes to a halt with a frown of concentration.

The needle points back into his room, the way he’s come, and he returns to the top room of Baker Street once more, puzzled that, as he moves further into the room, the needle once again turns and points the way he’s come.

Needless to say, it’s never done this before.

He turns in the direction the needle is pointing and moves forward slowly, determined to discover what it might be pointing at, but all that’s in front of him is the deerstalker and the violin.

John’s breath catches in his throat, his heart pumping furiously in his chest. He clenches at the compass because it can’t mean _that_.

“John?”

“Just a minute!”

He walks to the deerstalker and takes it in his hand, bringing it into contact with the compass.

The needle goes haywire, spinning quickly, before it jerks to a stop, pointing northwest.

When he turns his head to look, he spots the atlas and it’s as if the world stops. His blood rushes in his ears, blocking out all other noise, and the hairs on the back of his neck rise, making him shiver.

Because it _can’t_ be.

Can it?

He walks towards the atlas, the deerstalker clutched in his hand, and he thinks, _This is silly, this is stupid, ridiculous, I’m just seeing what I want to see…._

_But Mycroft knows you have the violin and he’s done nothing. Why?_

Because the violin is old, and it’s valuable—monetarily and sentimentally. Wouldn’t Mycroft want to have such an item to remember his brother by? Wouldn’t his mother?

A dangerous, burning bubble of hope forms in his stomach, rises into his chest, and his heart is pounding and it feels like the world is suddenly over bright, too colourful to bear.

Because whether the compass is leading him towards happiness or sadness, it’s a journey he knows he will-- _must_ \--make.

“Oh yes,” he says, gripping intently at the compass. It is time to venture forth into the unknown, to follow this path, whatever may come.

“I’m ready.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Fixed Point](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1836043) by [Persiflager](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager)




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